


Coco AU: Witnesses

by Agent_Numbuh_227



Category: Coco (2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Family, Hurt/Comfort, Witnesses AU, basically someone sees ernesto taking things from a dead man, he's caught red-handed so he runs
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-24
Updated: 2019-04-18
Packaged: 2019-05-27 18:04:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15030278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Agent_Numbuh_227/pseuds/Agent_Numbuh_227
Summary: The reason Ernesto had managed to get away with murdering his best friend and stealing his songs is because there were not witnesses to his crime. And is there are no witnesses then the crime doesn't exists.But what if someonedidwitness the crime?





	1. The Witnesses

**Author's Note:**

> Coco is my favorite movie yet and I believe it is Pixar's greatest film yet! Here's my first attempt at writing a Coco story so I hope you like it.  
> *Warning: There are some minor mentions of blood.
> 
> Note: I was formerly known as OperativeNumbuh227 but I recently changed it to my current username.

Ernesto stands back as he watches his best friend stumble a few more feet before finally collapsing, first on his knees then face-planting into the hard ground. A small stab of grief and regret briefly strikes his heart before it’s smothered.

_This was necessary,_ he tells himself as he walks over to Héctor’s dropped suitcase. _He left me with no choice._

Ernesto sets the case containing Héctor’s – now his – guitar on the ground as he begins to riffle through the suitcase’s spilled contents, smiling slightly when he produces the red notebook that he’d been searching for.

_He wanted to throw our dream away, so I did what I had to seize my moment._

Héctor wasn’t completely at fault, though. Indeed, if there was someone to blame for his untimely demise, it was that _maldita mujer_ who had used her wiles to bewitch Ernesto’s poor _hermanito_ into abandoning their childhood dreams, first by making Héctor marry her then ensnaring him further by birthing that spawn of theirs. And because of the _hechizo_ that that woman had casted on Héctor, Ernesto had been forced to kill his little brother after Ernesto could no longer convince him to continue with the tour. Yes, it was all Imelda Rivera’s fault.

All these thoughts cross Ernesto’s mind as he opens the songbook on a random page, his eyebrows rising as he comes across a song he hadn’t known about. This was not unusual as Héctor had the annoying habit of writing songs that he refused to play on their shows because they were “just” for his _familia_. I waste of Héctor’s talents, in Ernesto’s opinion as those “special songs” were some of his best. Well, they won’t be kept from the world for much longer.

Ernesto’s frowns slightly as he reads the words _'_ _rubato, simply, tenderly'_ written on the upper left corner of the page.

_Hmm, I’m going to have to make some adjustments to this song before I can use it,_ he thinks as he stashes the songbook into the inner pocket of his jacket and picks up the guitar case.

_“Oye!”_

Ernesto nearly drops the guitar case as he turns to toward the shout, eyes wide like a startled deer’s. A short man and a somewhat ‘beefy’ woman stand at the entrance of a small alley between two houses a few feet away but he has no time to discern more details before the man speaks again.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

Panic floods every fiber of Ernesto’s being as he finds himself unable to answer, unable to think up any excuse that could believably explain why he was taking a dead man’s belongings. And as the two witnesses quickly approach, Ernesto does the only thing a panicked man caught red-handed can do.

He runs.

* * *

 

As her husband curses and takes off after the fleeing mariachi, the woman kneels beside the prone young _músico_ , turning him over unto his back to access any injuries. His face was a bloody mess, the impact with the ground breaking his nose and loosening various teeth. Still, she could see the faint rise and fall of his chest that indicates he’s still breathing. Maybe it wasn’t too late for him.

The woman startles when the _músico_ makes a sudden choking noise, blood and bile sprouting from his mouth as his body convulses slightly. Before she can even think of doing something, the lanky man falls still once again, his chest no longer moving to draw in breath. The woman presses two fingers to the still man’s wrist, dread filling her not at what she felt, but rather, what she _didn’t_ felt.

There was no pulse.

* * *

 

_No, no, no! This CANNOT be happening!_

These words repeat in Ernesto’s frantic mind all over and over again as he rapidly weaves through the dark streets of Mexico City, trying in vain to lose his pursuer. Despite his short legs the man chasing him has no trouble keeping up with Ernesto and was in fact gaining on the fleeing murderer.

_This ISN’T how thing were supposed to go!_

There shouldn’t have been anyone else in the streets that late at night, everyone else was supposed to be asleep inside their houses. No one was supposed to have seen him just stand there watching his best friend die, to see him take his songbook and guitar, to see him about to just leave Héctor’s body behind. No one was supposed to see because if there were no witnesses, then there was no crime. He could eventually forget if he had been the only one to know. He could forget about what he had done. And if he forgot about it then it no longer existed.

But he _had_ been seen, not by one but _two_ other people, _two_ witnesses to his dark deed. And because he had been seen, he wouldn’t be able to forget what he did to Héctor. He wouldn’t be able to convince himself that it hadn’t happened. All because he had had been _seen._

“Stop, you _hijo de puta!_ ”

The short man’s voice is much closer than before. Glancing over his shoulder, Ernesto sees that his pursuer is just a few feet behind him now, that distance shrinking by the second. It won’t be long before Ernesto was caught... unless he thinks of something quick.

A desperate plan forms in his panic-addled brain and while a part of him screams to not do it, his sense of survival drowns it out. So, with only a second of hesitation, Ernesto throws the guitar case at his hunter’s feet, the shorter man tripping over it and crashing into the ground. By the time the man manages to pick himself up, groaning, there was no sign of his quarry.

Ernesto de la Cruz has escape.


	2. Police Procedure

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not familiar with how police procedures were like in 1920's Mexico so if anyone knows, pleae let me know and I'll do the necessary changes to the chapter.

  _Oficial_ Gabriel Gutierrez is a tall man, fit without being too muscular, with sharp eyes that take in every detail and a clean cut mustache over the serious frown his mouth is in. He has been part of the Mexico City police for almost ten years, joining shortly after his father had been murdered and the perpetrators never caught and convicted. Ever since then, he has vowed to do everything in his power to give people the justice his family was denied and tonight was no different.

He and a few other officers from the night shift had been busy with some paperwork when the man had bursted into the station.

_“Oye, necesito ayuda!”_ he had shouted, getting everyone’s attention. “There’s some guy who dropped dead near the train station and someone tried to rob him!”

Gutierrez and a few other officers had risen from their desks and rushed to follow the shorter man. They had arrived to the crime scene to find the man’s wife trying to disperse a small crowd that had formed around the body. Some of the onlookers scattered when the police arrived but most remained, standing some distance away to watch curiously. Among them was the owner of a nearby inn who recognized the man as one the inn’s guests.

“His name is Héctor Rivera,” the man had said when questioned. “He and his partner, Señor Ernesto de la Cruz booked a room about a week ago.”

“I bet that’s the _pendejo_ that we saw!” the short man had stated when he heard. “He was wearing a mariachi suit.”

With that information, Gutierrez had sent a pair of officers with the innkeeper to search the musicians’ room while the rest of the scene was processed before the body was transported to the station. He then had addressed the short man and his wife.

“I’m going to need you to accompany me back to the station,” he had told them. “So we can take your statements as you are the only witnesses at the moment.”

Now, sitting before him, side by side, are Señora Juana Maria Cristo de Santos and her husband, Señor Federico Alfonso Santos, though the man insists on being referred to as ‘Chicharrón’ (not the strangest _apodo_ he has encountered). Apparently, the couple had traveled to Mexico City for the week to celebrate their anniversary. To most people, the pair would appear to be quite ugly and Gutierrez can understand why. Señor Santos (or Chicharrón) is short and squat with a constant look of _amargura_ present in his face, looking at _oficial_ Gutierrez with annoyance. In contrast, his wife is taller than average with a very ‘beefy’ thickness to her, not really fat but more like possessing more muscle than a woman should have. Her eyes are also unusual as they are two different colors, the left bright green and the right a sky blue while her lower jaw sticks out in a slight under bite. But despite these traits diminishing her physical appeal, her eyes shine with kindness (though there’s a slight hunted look in them as well), and there is a motherly aura that surrounds her. Still, Gutierrez has a feeling that despite her gentle nature, Señora Juana Cristo de Santos is not a woman to mess with.

Either way, Gutierrez is not here to analyze the looks and personality of these people but to ask them what they had seen.

“We were coming back to our room after a day out in the city,” begins Señora Juana Cristo, her composure excellent “and Cheech “she gestures to her husband “suggested that we take a short through some of the alleys.”

“It was getting late and I didn’t want some _ladron_ to attack us,” grumbles Señor Santos as he tries to justify himself.

“By creeping through dark alleys were _ladrones_ lurk,” his wife snarks back before continuing. “So as we came out to the street we saw de la Cruz taking a red notebook from the suitcase while poor Señor Rivera was _tirado en el piso_ just a few feet away.”

“What was he doing with the notebook?”

“He looked through it for a moment then put it inside his jacket,” Señora Santos continues. “We found it very suspicious that he was taking Señor Rivera’s things while his partner was lying unconscious nearby. That’s when my husband confronted him.” Señor Santos took this as his cue to speak.

“The _maldito pendejo_ ran,” he nervously shrinks when his wife glares disapprovingly at his swearing. “I chased him and would have caught him if the bas- MAN!” he corrects himself quickly when his wife glares again. “The **_man_** hadn’t thrown that _guitarra_ at me,” he growls at the memory. “By the time I picked myself up, de la Cruz had escaped.”

“And you are certain that man was Señor Ernesto de La Cruz?”

“Of course,” says Señora Santos. “We actually saw them performing at the _plaza_ while we were out earlier so we recognized de la Cruz immediately.”

Gutierrez nods as he accepts that and goes back to questioning them. “So what were you doing while your husband went after de la Cruz, Señora?”

Señora Santos becomes a bit uncomfortable at this question, the haunted look in her mismatched eyes intensifying slightly as her hands shake slightly. It’s only when her husband places his hand on hers that she answers.

“I-I went over to Señor Rivera to see if I could help him,” her voice trembles slightly but is clear. “I turned him over to his back, there was blood on his face, probably from hitting the ground but he was still breathing a little.” She falters a bit before steeling herself. “He suddenly began convulsing and vomiting blood then went still just as suddenly. I checked for his pulse but found nothing, he was already dead.”

She sags slightly as she finishes speaking, as if reliving the memory drained her energy.

Señor Santos glares as he stands to wrap an arm around his taller wife’s shoulders in comfort. “Are we done with these _preguntas tontas?_ ”

“Just a few more questions, then we only need a description of the suspect and you can be on your way,” Gutierrez reassures them.

“Good.”

* * *

 

After giving the police a throughout description of de la Cruz and what the man had been wearing, Chicharrón and Juanita exit the police station back to Mexico City’s dark streets. It was way past midnight and the streets were cold and deserted, the couple pressing close for warmth. They walk a few feet before Juanita stops and sighs sadly.

“I should have tried to do more.”

Cheech hears the guilt in her voice. “Is not your fault; that poor _bastardo_ was already at Muerte’s door.” He worries when she doesn’t scold him for swearing.

“Still, I wish we could have done something more to help him.” His wife falls silent as they resume their slow walk.

Chicharrón is not the soft and comforting type but he really loves his beautiful wife and hates to see her this way. He too wishes that they could have done more for that young _músico_. Cheech may have never spoken with the young man but when he saw him playing his guitar, he felt a sense of kinship. While he didn’t think of himself as having amazing musical talent, Chicharrón has a great deal of respect for the art and can easily tell when others are the same. And while he could admit that de la Cruz was a talented performer, Cheech could see that he was only in it for the attention, the music being only a means to an end.

But not Héctor Rivera! No, the young man was a real musician as he played from the bottom of his heart and the deep of his soul. He clearly enjoyed music for its own sake, it was obvious to Chicharrón and he feels the injustice that such a kindred spirit had been snuffed out so young.

But there’s nothing more than they can do but be there for each other as family must do- _wait, that’s it!_

“I know what we can do!”

Juanita stops walking again and turns to her husband, confusion and some hope in her dazzling eyes. “What is it?”

“We can go find Rivera’s family and let them know what happened to him. Those _músicos_ said that they’re from Santa Cecilia, right?”

“Yes,” Juanita looks a bit skeptic. “Wouldn’t _la_ _policía_ be able to do that on their own?” She likes the idea but isn’t sure it would work.

Cheech snorts. “You saw how little people they have in there and I bet that they will be busy with other cases.”

“Still...”

“We can ask is they need help, we lose nothing if they refuse.”

“Oh, alright,” but some determination creeps into her eyes and together they run back into the station.

Gutierrez is a bit skeptical about letting civilians help in a police investigation but relents, admitting that they _do_ have so lots of cases and very few people.

“Rivera’s case would likely get pushed back by a more ‘urgent’ one,” Gutierrez scowls at this. “And is no family comes to claim him then he’ll get buried in a common grave.”

Juanita scowls at that. “In that case, I better stay here and make sure that doesn’t happen.” There would be no dissuading her from it.

That’s how Chicharrón finds himself in a train towards Santa Cecilia with Héctor Rivera’s guitar in hand as well as a picture of the man that was found in his pocket, on a mission the find Rivera’s family to give them the sad news of his demise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, the witnesses are a young, alive Chicharron and his wife, my original character Juanita (I know is common for people to give Cheech a wife named Juanita but I don't care). I'm going to try to make the chapters short and simple so that I can update quickly but my real life is a factor s don't expect weekly updates.
> 
> Next up, Cheech finds Hector's family to give them the news, which won't be easy.


	3. Informing Imelda

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, sorry for taking so long to update but I was hit with a severe case of writer's block, plus I got back to my university classes so I have less free time. I hope that the chapter was worth the wait since I put a lot of effort into it. Hope that you enjoy it!

_This can’t be happening._

_Mi suerte no puede ser tan mala._

Ernesto continues running until he is sure that he has lost his pursuer, only then allowing himself to stop and catch his breath. Panting with exertion, Ernesto silently curses at his bad luck. He had been seen! He had been pursued! He had lost _his_ guitar! It shouldn’t have had happened!

His internal raging is swiftly replaced by his returning panic as he realizes he has bigger problems. Those people saw him taking his dead friend’s possessions, so they will surely go to the authorities after failing to capture him. He needs to get out of the city before the police get involved.

With that though at the forefront of his mind, Ernesto sprints back towards the inn where he and Héctor had been staying. Quickly traversing the alleys he had gone through a short while ago (while simultaneously on the lookout in case the short man was near), he soon arrived at the street where his room was.

As the room comes into view, Ernesto suddenly stops in his tracks as a sight much more terrifying than the _cuco_ makes his eyes widen and his panic to increase tenfold. _No, no, no!_ He quickly backs into the alley that he had just exited and watches with mounting terror as the innkeeper opens the door to allow the two police officers to enter the room. This is not good!

The police would surely be quick to find the poison that he had used to kill Héctor among his things and, with some testing, on the tequila glass as well. What’s worst, there’s no possible way for Ernesto to sneak in and grab his belongings, meaning that he was stuck in Mexico City as he had no money to buy a train ticket, save for a few pesos in his pockets. He was trapped! All that effort to get the poison and the agonizing decision to murder his best friend, it was for nothing!

Ernesto just stands there in the dark, dirty alley as he watches his dreams crumble to dust before his eyes. For a moment he considers walking over and giving himself up to the police but the fear of going to jail like a criminal vanishes that thought.

The cowardly murderer flees into the night once more.

* * *

Chicharrón steps out of the train onto the small station with a few other people and takes his first look at Santa Cecilia. Is a quaint little town, not unlike the one he lives in and it makes Cheech feel a bit of homesickness. He thinks of his three young children who are being cared for by his sisters-in-law then he thinks of his wife who has remained in Mexico City to make sure that Rivera’s body doesn’t end up in a common grave. While he knows that his children are in good hands and his wife is a capable woman, Chicharrón can’t help but worry about them.

He quickly focuses himself back on his mission and heads over to the small market near the town’s plaza. In a small town like this, everyone is familiar with each other even if they don’t interact personally, so he is certain that someone will know Rivera’s family. Luck is on his side as a woman attending a cart selling flowers immediately recognizes Rivera’s face when Cheech shows her his picture.

“Yes, that’s Héctor Rivera,” confirms the florist, Paula, a worried look on her face as she looks from the photo to Cheech. “D-did something happen to him?”

“This is something for his family to know first,” Cheech struggles to be polite. “So, can you tell me where they live, please?”

Fortunately, the young woman did know and was able to give Chicharrón the address. Apparently, Héctor Rivera was an orphan with now knowledge of his parents but the man did have a wife and they lived close to the plaza.

It doesn’t take long for Cheech to arrive, a sign painted on the wall saying _‘Rivera: Familia de Zapateros since 1921’_ indicating that this was the right residence. Cheech knocks on the door and thinks about what he will tell Rivera’s wife- _widow_ \- while he waits for someone to answer. He will have to ease the news gently and even if he manages that, there will undoubtedly be crying-

**_“PAPA!”_ **

Chicharrón’s thoughts grind to a halt when he hears the small, high-pitched voice as the door swings open wide. The little girl’s expression shifts from excitement to confusion as she gazes up at the wide-eyed man. “You’re not Papa” she sounds disappointed.

For his part, all that Chicharrón can think of now is ‘ _mierda,_ _mierda, mierda!_ ’ No one said anything about a child! While he wasn’t surprised that such a young man was already married, the possibility of Rivera having any children never crossed Chicharrón’s mind Cheech isn’t good at being tactful around young children (not even his own) and he frantically tries to think of a way out of this new complication.

“¿Coco, porque estas gritando?”

Salvation comes to Chicharrón when a woman appears on the door behind the child, no doubt Héctor Rivera’s wife, Imelda Rivera. She appears to be in her twenties, wearing a beautiful purple gown and her dark hair tied up with purple ribbons. As her almond-shaped eyes briefly flicker to Chicharrón with puzzlement and suspicion, the short man immediately sees their inner fire and realizes that this woman is of the strong spirited kind who can’t be stopped when they have a goal in mind, not unlike his Juanita.

“I thought Papa had come home,” Coco looks up at her mother, disappointment and some sadness present in her voice.

The woman sighs, her own sadness apparent for a second before she hides it. “ _Míja_ , I know that you miss your papa, but I promise that he’ll be home soon.”

_No, he won’t_ , thinks Chicharrón sadly as he watches them.

Imelda Rivera seems to remember that they’re not alone as she shifts her gaze from her daughter to the short man standing on her doorstep. “Can I help you?” her tone slightly suspicious but still polite as she holds her child close.

“Uh, I, em…” Chicharrón nervously stammers as he glances between the woman and her daughter, unsure of how to deliver the tragic news with a child present.

Luckily, Imelda Rivera notices his hesitance and what’s causing it, so she says to her daughter, “Coco, why don’t go help your _tíos_ clean up the table?”

“Si, Mama,” the little girl and she skips back inside. Cheech catches a glimpse of a pair of identical 15-year-old boys before the woman steps out and closes the door.

Chicharrón calms down slightly now that the child is no longer present, but his nervousness remains as he was now alone with this woman of intimidating presence, her piercing gaze focused on him.

“My brothers will keep my daughter busy,” she explains. “Now, who are you and why are you here?” she demands.

Chicharrón quickly sets his nervousness aside. “They call me Chicharrón and I’m here about your husband.”

Imelda’s eyes widen. “Héctor? Did something happen?” there’s concern in her eyes now that her husband has been mentioned.

Cheech sighs sadly. “Señora, I’m afraid that your husband died last night.”

A small gasp leaves the young woman’s mouth as her face shifts into a look of shock. Chicharrón gives her a moment to process what he said, knowing that it would be hard for her to accept-

“Is this some kind of joke?”

Is now Chicharrón’s turn to be shocked as he looks at Imelda Rivera’s eyes, seeing fiery anger burning in them. The now irate woman takes an intimidating step towards the smaller man, who takes a matching step back. He knew that she might not take the news well, but outright denial wasn’t what Chicharrón was expecting.

“¿¡ _Quién te crees que eres_ , coming to my house with these lies?!” the woman’s voice increases as she continues advancing towards Chicharrón, pausing only to remove one of her boots. Some people nearby glace at their direction but everyone in Santa Cecilia knew better than to come between Imelda Rivera’s boot and whoever was unlucky enough to incur her wrath.

“Wait, I’m not lying!” Chicharrón frantically says, ducking when the woman swings her boot at his head. “He was carrying a _foto_ of himself!” He quickly procures the photo from his pocket and holds it in front on himself like a shield.

Imelda’s boot stills mid-swing as she stares at her husband’s grinning face, her arm holding the weaponized footwear dropping limply to her side. _“That’s Héctor,”_ she whispers, not taking her eyes off the _foto_.

Seeing as there’s no longer danger of a death-by-shoe, Cheech dares to speak again. “I also brought his guitar.”

Imelda’s gaze snaps up from the photograph to his face so quickly that Chicharrón almost runs away, but he manages to keep his composure and hand over to her the guitar case that he’s carrying. He watches as the woman takes the case with shaking hands, kneeling to set it on the ground in front of her.

As the lid opens, Chicharrón briefly notes that the guitar within is a beautiful instrument, shining white with a _calavera_ -shaped head, before all his attention is given to Imelda Rivera. The woman stares at the guitar with a blank expression that betrays no emotion. Even so, Chicharrón notices that her hands are trembling slightly as if she was trying to keep her true feelings locked in.

“This _is_ Héctor’s guitar,” Her voice is as emotionless as her expression. “He wouldn’t have parted with it willingly, not as long as he was alive.” She clenches her hands into fists to stop their increasing trembling and a hint of pain slips through as she asks her next question. “What happened to my husband?”

Chicharrón sighs as he once again narrates the events he witnessed, but this time it’s worse because this time is not an officer with no connection to the victim who hears the story. This is a wife who has undoubtedly lost the love of her life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry if Chicharrón seems like a wimp here but this is a younger/alive version of the character so he's less grumpy and harsh than his canon counterpart. Besides, Imelda is a very intimidating woman you don't want to get on the bad side of. A shout-out to Archive Of Our Own user Maxmerica since a comment they made helped inspire the scene where Chicharrón knocks on the door and Coco answers think that her Papá came home, so kudos to them! I'll try to update more quickly but that depends on factors in my real life so please be patient.


	4. Arrivals and Pawnshops

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter four is finally here! It originally was longer it included the part where Imelda and Chicharrón return to Mexico City and Imelda identifies Héctor's body. I decided to put that scene in the next chapter to get this one out quicker. Also, a shout-out to fellow author BoorkwormGal, who gave me permission to use some of their headcanons/world-building of the Land of the Dead (with some alterations done to fit my personal headcanon's), and whose Coco's stories are some of the best in this fandom.

Deep within the most ancient buildings in the Land of the Dead, the ancient Aztecan pyramids from which the marigold bridges formed stretching for miles below the waterline, were cavernous chambers where the newly deceased appeared. No one knew who had built these chambers or why the people appeared within them, but one legend has it that they were a creation of Mictecacihualt, la Santa Muerte.

Regardless of their origins, the recently deceased always appeared in these chambers and in the same places on the stone floor, that it, until someone had the idea to put beds in them. The chambers have been upgraded over the years, overhead lights to give illumination and curtains that separated each bed to give privacy, anything to make the newly arrived skeletons more comfortable upon awakening.

The dead always appeared unconscious, the length of time between their manifestation and awakening depending on how long it took for them to die and whether their death was traumatizing or not. Those who had died peacefully or quickly without much suffering took a few hours or a few days, while those who had violently or had suffered before passing, their awakening took longer as their souls took time to adjust to the crossing. Regardless as to what their cause of death was, all new arrivals woke up confused and often terrified, especially if they were children. That’s why deceased children were moved to a private and more soothing room. Only a few agents were coalified to handle dead children and, Arrivals agent Fabian Acosta was grateful that he wasn’t one of them.

Fabian has worked as an Arrivals Agent for more than thirty years, joining a few years after succumbing from a terrible fever. In those three decades he has seen many things and meet all manner of newly deceased people. As Fabian and a few other agents make their rounds, he notices a skeleton wearing a mariachi suit breathing, the man’s chest rising and falling quickly as if he’s having a nightmare. The Agent exchanges a quick nod with his closest colleagues, a silent acknowledgement that he’ll take care of this one but that back up would be nearby if trouble arose. Most people didn’t take well to waking up dead and could react badly.

Approaching the bed, Fabian draws the curtains around it, so they’d have some privacy. The curtains sectioned the beds and muffled the sounds so that the new arrivals wouldn’t be overwhelmed. He takes note of the skeleton’s complete lack of gray hairs on his hair, and while guessing someone’s age is harder without flesh, it was obvious that the man was young. It was always tragic when a young person died when they still had their entire life ahead of them.

He gives a quick glance at the chart at the foot of it, the information on it stating that the unconscious skeleton had arrived less than a day ago. That, combined with the rapid panting, tells Fabian that the man had died painfully but not suffered for long either. Perhaps he had suffered a serious injury and couldn’t get proper medical attention in time or maybe succumbed to a sudden illness like Fabian himself.

How he had died wasn’t too important however, and Fabian settles on the chair next to the bed to wait. There was a lot of things to do, from explanations to contacting family to dealing with the paperwork, among others, but they could wait. One of the first things that Arrival Agents were taught was to never rush the new arrivals and let them adjust to their new situation at their own pace, for death wasn’t something easy to deal with, so Arrivals Agent Fabian Acosta sets himself to wait.

* * *

 

Héctor’s eyes remain closed as he wakes up with a gasp and frantic confusion swarms his mind. Where is he? The last thing that he remembers is collapsing on the street after feeling a sudden pain as he walked with Ernesto to the train station to board a train home-

_Home!_

That single thought cuts through the remaining fog in his mind and his eyes fly open as Héctor bolts upright. He’s suddenly struck with nausea and dizziness as his surroundings spin wildly.

“Easy there, _amigo_.” A male voice says calmly. “I know this can be very disorienting at first breathing slowly helps.”

Héctor does at the voice instructs and takes slow, deep breaths while closing his eyes again. The dizziness and nausea fade away thought he still feels like there’s something amiss. As soon as he no longer feels like he will throw up, Héctor slowly opens his eyes again and has a moment to take in the curtain insolating the bed his lying on before he notices the owner of the voice-

_“Ah!_ ”

-and nearly falls out of the bed when he sees _a skeleton sitting right next to him!_

“It’s ok, _amigo_ ,” the skeleton holds up his boney hands in a gesture that’s meant to be reassuring but Héctor is too busy freaking out to notice. He does notice that the skeleton has odd, colorful markings on its – _his?_ – skull, is wearing a blue outfit like that of a train conductor and, strangely enough, possess hair and eyes. “No one’s going hurt you, _calmese._ ”

The skeleton’s tone is reassuring, and he doesn’t look like he wants to hurt Héctor but that does not change the fact that he’s alone with a talking, moving _esqueleto_ and he needs to _get out of there right now!_

Héctor doesn’t take his eyes off the skeleton as he slowly pulls his hand out from under the sheets so that he doesn’t get tangled when he escapes. A flash of white halts his movements and Héctor freezes at the sight of his hand, stripped of all its flesh with only the bones remaining.

“What…” he whispers in shock as he stares as his trembling skeletal appendage, flinching slightly when he curls his fingers and they move without the aid of muscles and tendons. He quickly feels his body, hoping that what he suspects isn’t true but that hope evaporates when he feels bones rather than flesh and there’s an empty space where his stomach, the source of his earlier pain, is supposed to be. He runs his bony hands over his face only to feel more bone (and how can he even feel anything without nerves?), his features too angular, and his large nose and ears missing, confirming that he was now a skeleton. “What happened to me? W-where am I?”

“I’m sorry to tell you this, _señor_ , but you have died,” the other skeleton says sympathetically. “This is the Land of the Dead and we’re in one of the Chambers, rooms where the newly deceased appear in this realm. Now, I know that this can be a lot to take in and that you must be scared and confused, but we’re here to help you adjust to your new situation. My name is Fabian Acosta and I’ll be happy to answer any questions that you might have as we fill out your paperwork and work on contacting any deceased family that you may have.”

_Family_.

That single word pulls Héctor out of the shock at finding himself turned into a skeleton. His family. Imelda… Coco… Ernesto…the Twins.

“My family… my wife, my daughter… they’re still alive…”

Héctor had been an orphan, abandoned at the steps of the orphanage when he was just a baby and raised by the nuns. His only family had been them and Ernesto, an older orphan, until he had met his Imelda and they had Coco. He had no one here. He was alone.

“That’s alright,” reassures Fabian. “We have resources for new arrivals without any deceased family. Your case isn’t exactly rare. We’ll provide you with all the information you need.”

Héctor barely hears what Fabian was saying, his thoughts only on the fact that he is now separated from his family. Th fact that he had died before he could go back home to them. He doesn’t realize that he’s moving until he feels Fabian grab him, halting his frantic escape.

“Please, I have to go back to them!”

Two more skeletons in blue uniforms, summoned by Fabian’s calls for help, hold him as his struggling grows wilder but Héctor doesn’t care. His only thoughts are that he needs to return to his family.

“I promised that I would come back!”

The image of his wife and daughter flashes across his mind, and Héctor feels his heart break as he continues to fight against the agents holding him, despite the futility, unwilling to admit what he already knows.

_“Imelda! Coco!”_

He can never go home again.

* * *

 

Ernesto tries keep a casual demeanor as he enters the pawn shop, trying to not look too suspicious and draw attention to himself. For the first time he curses his natural ability to draw attention and, despite once practically thriving by being the center of attention, he now wishes he could become invisible. How ironic.

The shop’s owner looks up from the paper he’s reading, a single eyebrow raising as he takes in Ernesto’s appearance from behind the counter. Ernesto hopes that his stare is only due to his messy hair and slightly dirty mariachi suit, a consequence of being forced to spend the night in a dirty alley. Ernesto didn’t care what others thought of his appearance, as long as no one can identify him later if the police came asking, He couldn’t afford to care anymore.

“Can I help you, _amigo_?” the shop owner asks as he gives a charming and welcoming smile, his tone the kind that gains your trust and easily persuades. Ernesto himself had used that smile and tone countless of times in the past to get his way. Either to get out of punishment from the nuns at the orphanage, convince pretty _señoritas_ to have a ‘fun’ night with him, or to book shows in inns and bars without a previous contract.

“I’m here to pawn off this songbook,” Ernesto gets right to the point, focusing on the present as he pulls the red notebook from inside his jacket. While he loathes to sell the songbook, he sacrificed so much to get, he knows that it will be worst if the police caught him with it. Whatever charisma that he has won’t do him any good if that happens. And he desperately needs whatever money he can get, at least enough to buy a train ticket out of Mexico City. The police won’t follow him outside of their jurisdiction and, once safely away from the city, he could then figure out what step to take next.

“Hm, let’s see it then,” the shopkeeper peruses through the songbook, checking pages at random and quickly looking over the song lyrics within. “Well, I’m not musician but these appear to be very good songs. I assume that you wrote them yourself, Señor,” a quick glance at the first page. “Héctor Rivera, right?”

“Yes,” Ernesto lies easily, no bothering to correct the man. The more to help hide his trail the better. “I would normally not give them up like that, but some complications came up recently and I’ve lost most of my belongings, even my guitar.”

“That’s a shame,” the shopkeeper says sympathetically as he opens the cash register. “While I can’t pay you as much as these songs deserve, I can give you a decent amount.”

And Ernesto is handed a more than generous amount. This is more than enough to get out the city and maybe buy a new guitar, if only a second-use one. He happily leaves the pawn shop, glad that finally something is going his way for once.

* * *

 

Felix Conde watches as the mariachi leaves his shop and once he’s certain that the man is out of sight, he pulls out the paper he had been studying earlier. A police sketch of the man (whose actual name is Ernesto de la Cruz according to the information that he was given) with the words _‘Se Busca por Robo y Asesinato’_ written on top stares back at him.

“Juan, take care of the store,” he calls towards to his eldest son in the backroom. “I need to go someplace urgently.”

_“Sí Papá!”_

Felix nods as his boy takes his place behind the counter and he exit the shop, immediately taking the quickest route to the police station from it. He prays to God that he can relay this information to his _compadre_ Gabriel before that murderer leaves the city.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Arrivals Agent Fabian Acosta, Felix Conde and his son, Juan are OCs created by me. They are named after some of my relatives, Felix named after my uncle/godfather and Juan and Fabian being named after my cousins, while Conde is my paternal grandmother's surname. The Gabriel that Felix mentions is Officer Gabriel Gutierrez from chapter two (also named after another cousin). He and Felix are childhood friends, and Felix usually acts as an informant for the police. Next time, we have more angst with Imelda.


	5. Widow Arrives and Murderer Arrested

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, it’s been a long time! First of all, I would like to apologize for taking so long to update but a mix of busy with my life and feeling un-motivated to write prevented me from finishing this chapter sooner, Hopefully, future ones wouldn’t take as long.

Imelda looks out the window, staring blankly at the fast-moving scenery as the train moves closer to Mexico City. Her face is an expressionless mask, brown eyes not taking in the shifting landscape as her mind wanders back to yesterday’s events.

After Chicharrón explained to her the details of her husband death and Imelda shook herself out of the shock that the one responsible for her husband’s demise was his best friend and brother in all but blood, the now-widow made the decision to accompany Chicharrón back to Mexico City so she could personally identify Héctor’s body and bring it back to Santa Cecilia.

She then put on a strong, serious face before reentering her home to inform her daughter and brothers that she would be gone for a few days. Her brave facade had almost cracked when Coco had asked if she was bringing Papa home, but Imelda managed to keep herself composed and told the little girl that yes, she was bringing him home (which technically wasn’t a lie. Oscar and Felipe weren’t fooled, however, as they knew their sister well and had realized that something was wrong. Fortunately, they knew better than to pry and Imelda trusted them to take care of Coco in her absence.

Now, as the scorching noon sun beat relentlessly as the train bound towards Mexico City steadily chugging its way over the rails, Imelda finds herself unable to still her mind.

_‘Héctor is dead.’_

This single thought constantly repeats itself over and over in her head like a broken record, refusing to stop. Often, other thoughts related to this one made themselves know, like-

_‘Héctor was murdered. He was murdered by Ernesto. He killed the love of my life._ _He_ _killed Coco’s_ _papa.’_

-as well as words of denial from the part of her that believes and hopes that this is all some kind of joke, terrible prank. That when the train arrives at Mexico City, she’ll see her husband waiting at the station and smiling at her with that goofy grin of his. She’ll then hit him with her boot hard enough to knock him down to the ground as she loudly berates him for worrying her so much, gathering the attention of everyone around them. And after she’s done scolding him and Héctor starts to apologize, she will then grab him by his shirt to pull him to her level and press their lips together is a passionate kiss without any care about their audience. Once they separate after the long kiss, Héctor would apologize once more and wax poetic phrases about how much he loved her. She would still be mad (though, secretly giddy about the words) but she would still allow him to sit next to her on the train ride home. And once back at Santa Cecilia, they would go to their home and be welcomed by the twins and Coco, the little girl screaming joyfully as she tackled her Papa, happy that he was finally back. Héctor would easily pick her in his arms and spin her around, both laughing as Imelda and her brothers happily watched. The now reunited family would then enter their home together hand-in-hand.

But as much as a large part of her wants this scenario to be true, Imelda knows deep down that she will never see her husband alive again.

In the seat across from Imelda, Chicharrón alternates between watching the passing scenery and glancing at the pensive woman. Neither had spoken much save for a few words, so most of the long train ride has been spent in silence.

While Chicharrón usually wouldn’t mind the quiet, this kind of silence is filled with great tension and awkwardness that he wishes he could break. The only thing stopping him is that the man can’t think of any words to say and, even if he could think of something, he was worried that Imelda Rivera might not appreciate something that could be considered pity. Chicharrón certainly had no wish to become closely acquainted with that boot after being threatened by it yesterday. The well-crafted piece of footwear looks like it could hurt worse than his mama’s _chancla!_

So, Cheech keeps his mouth shut for the whole journey, not a single word escaping his mouth even when the train grows closer to Mexico City. It is only when the train conductor announces that they have arrived that Imelda is finally pulled out of her thoughts, though neither says anything yet as they pick up their luggage (including Héctor Rivera's guitar) and exit the train.

It is Imelda who finally breaks the silence once they leave the station. “So, where’s the police station?” she turns to address Chicharrón, her intense gaze boring into him.

Chicharrón gulps slightly (‘ _She is definitely as intimidating as Juanita!’_ ) but manages to gesture in one direction. “Right this way.”

Imelda slightly nods and falls into step with Chicharrón as the short man guides her to the police station and closer to her (dead) husband.

They arrive at the police station after walking for a while and, after a short talk with some officers, they're led towards the basement where the morgue is located. But, as they near the door, they hear what sounds like a woman yelling loudly, Chicharrón recognizing Juanita as the voice. The officer escorting them tenses up and slowly inches closer to the door, a hand on his holstered weapon.

The door suddenly bursts open, making them all jump, and Juanita Cristo de Santos angrily marches out of the room, an angry expression on her face. Just beyond the open door, a man who looks to be a doctor has his back pressed against the wall, a look of fear in his eyes. There’s a long, metal table a little further into the small room, with something human-shaped covered in a white sheet resting on top of it.

The officer relaxes in relief that there doesn’t seem to be any immediate danger, but he still looks serious and once Juanita is close, he asks, “¿Qué paso aquí?” his voice stern.

Despite her obvious anger, Juanita manages composes herself a bit and answers the officer’s inquiry, “What happened was that this _pendejo_ ,” she spats as she gestures angrily at the doctor, who flinches in response. “Was going to have poor Señor Rivera be buried in some common grave without even waiting for his family to be found.”

“What?!” came two outraged shouts from behind the officer, as Chicharrón and Imelda voice their displeasure at the news, the woman looking seconds away from pulling off her boot to cave in the doctor’s skull.

“I-It was just a s-suggestion!” stutters the medical examiner, trying to defend himself. He flinches again when three sets of furious eyes (Imelda’s, Cheech’s, and Juanita’s) turn towards him, but he continues to talk. "Since the victim appears to have been traveling very far from home, we don't know how long it would take to locate his family. And since we don't have much space in the morgue, I thought it would be for the best to bury him since it would free up space."

Though the reasons did make some sense, it didn’t mean that the three civilians were just going to accept them so easily. The officer sighs again, this time in exasperation rather than relief, he really wants a drink right now despite the early hour.

Imelda, meanwhile, scoffs and addresses the still cowering doctor, “Well, that won’t be necessary since I’m here and I’ll be taking my husband home to give him a _proper_ funeral as he deserves. She ignores the pain stabbing at her heart when she talks about burying Héctor, not willing to look weak in front of others.

“Señora Rivera,” the officer sighs for the third time in the last hour, “we still need you to identify in our victim is your husband and _we_ still need to finish our investigation before we can talk about sending anyone home and funerals.”

Imelda's anger is immediately forgotten at the reminder of what she came down here for in the first place. She releases a sigh of her own and dons a determined expression. "Right," she nods. "Let's do this." And she strides with purpose into the examination room as the doctor (who has gotten back to his feet) positions himself to remove the sheet that covers the body on the table. Outside the room, Chicharrón, Juanita, and the officer stand solemnly in waiting.

“Ready?” the doctor gently asks, but not without some wariness in his voice due to still being shaken by the recent anger directed at him. A single nod is the only response that he gets, and the sheet is removed a second later, revealing the corpse underneath it.

Imelda sucks in a breath, her eyes widening as she takes in the familiar big nose, sharp cheekbones, and messy hair. And despite that her logical side recognizes those features, Imelda can't help but feel a sense of wrongness as she stares at her husband's body. It was just so _still_ , so _quiet_ , two words she has never thought would be used to describe the love of her life. Héctor was never still and never quiet, always moving and dancing and singing everywhere that he went. Even in his sleep, he wasn't still, humming in his dreams as the music flowed through his head. But _this_ , this wasn’t her Héctor. This was just his Héctor’s _body_ , an empty shell that no longer contained the wonderful soul that she has fallen for and had a daughter with.

Her vision becomes blurry due to the tears that threaten to fall but Imelda holds them back. She can’t break down, she **_won’t_** break down, not here, not now. She needs to be strong, strong for her daughter, for her brothers and for herself. Until Héctor’s body is safely back in Santa Cecilia and given a proper burial, Imelda won’t let a single tear fall.

* * *

 

_‘My luck might be getting better,’_ thought Ernesto happily as he eats a simple breakfast of _huevos rancheros_ in the inn that he had slept at last night. After leaving the pawn shop, he had bought some cheap new clothes to replace his somewhat tattered _charro_ suit (which he had thrown in an alley the first chance he got) then proceeded to rent a room at a small inn. He knew that it was risky and that there was a chance that he could be caught, but Ernesto was exhausted from all the running and stressing out that he had done, and he just wanted to sleep in a bed, no matter how worn and ratty the mattress was.

He had felt much more relaxed once he woke up after a good night’s rest, more confident that things would work out after the catastrophic failure from yesterday. He still had a lot of money left over from selling the songbook, enough to buy a ticket to the next town and maybe buy a second-hand guitar once he got there. He could still salvage his dream! Sure, he no longer had the songbook, but he remembered most of the songs in it and he could still pass them as his own. Héctor's _bruja_ of a wife couldn’t do anything since, without the songbook, she wouldn’t have any proof about who had written the songs. Besides, she was just a woman, a _very_ terrifying woman for sure, but still a woman, one who no longer has a husband. Meanwhile, Ernesto was charismatic, handsome and most importantly, he was a man. His word held more weight than hers, especially once he became famous.

Sure, it might be harder to archive fame someplace that wasn’t Mexico City, but Ernesto had never been a quitter and he wasn’t going to become one now. This was just a minor setback, an obstacle to his way to fame that he had to overcome. But he will overcome this and any other obstacles that he encounters.

_He will seize his moment!_

These grandiose thoughts of future fame are interrupted when the inn’s door is thrown open and dozens of police officers storm in. The other patrons shriek in panic as the law enforcers rush through, loud voices ordering that nobody moves. Ernesto himself is frozen in shock in his seat, almost indistinguishable from a statue save his breathing as he stares wide-eyed at what's happening before him.

His panic increases when half-a-dozen stony-faced officers march towards his table and point their guns at him. The one that seems to be in-charge takes a good look at Ernesto and his stoic expression slightly breaks as the corners of his lips tug upwards in a small smirk.

“Ernesto de la Cruz,” the cold way that the officer says his name makes Ernesto feel like he is staring at Death itself. “You are under arrest for the murder of Héctor Rivera.”

A single though courses through Ernesto’s mind as he’s slammed into his table (and still uneaten eggs) and cuffed.

_‘On second thought, my luck is worse than ever.'_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm still not exactly sure if this chapter turned out as good as I hoped for. Anyway, see you next time!

**Author's Note:**

> I originally had another bit after this final scene but I felt that it was a good place to finish the chapter. Updates may be quick since I'm feel really inspired but that really depends on my real life.
> 
> Check out my tumblr for more stuff about this AU: https://agent-numbuh-227.tumblr.com/


End file.
